


moonlight serenade

by divinetock3



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, F/M, First Kiss, Fluff, Pining, Reader-Insert, it's 2019 and i'm soft for bucky barnes!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! still!!!!!!!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-28
Updated: 2019-08-28
Packaged: 2020-09-28 19:03:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20430923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/divinetock3/pseuds/divinetock3
Summary: bucky has a crush on a waitress at the local cafe, and knows she's too good for him.





	moonlight serenade

**Author's Note:**

> song(s): moonlight serenade by glenn miller, the greatest by lana del rey, hangout at the gallows by father john misty  
[brad pitt voice] i think this just might by my masterpiece  
jokes aside, i'm sooo proud of this one. i had two previous drafts that were more funny than heartfelt and they felt painfully Off, so starting this one my only requirement was making myself cry and i uhhh Did. although this is for bucky (my love), i feel it reads more as a love letter to steve after processing endgame and i am more than fine with that

Bucky knows trauma like an old friend. The two have been woven in his very marrow since he was young. To say he’s used to pain, at this point, would be a gross understatement. But he hates to even acknowledge it. A lot of people have it much worse.

Sam, for instance, lost a friend too. Steve, as always with everyone he encountered, was their guiding light. With him gone, even if it is on his own terms…well, it’s taken a lot of getting used to. Bucky hasn’t spent a lot of time—_as_ Bucky—knowing a world without Steve Rogers. It’ll take awhile. He knows that. And despite the sometimes hollowing grief he feels at random points in the day when he hears something he wish he could tell Steve about or he sees a beautiful sunrise that he wishes he could share just one more time with his pal, he’s happy Steve can rest now. It’s what he deserved after…

After.

Sam and Bucky have grown close since his passing. They work missions together, a silent agreement to never take a job if the other can’t come. It’s never acknowledged, and Bucky likes it that way; it’s the kind of thoughtless bond he had with Steve. _You can’t have_ him _without_ me. That kind of loyalty has always been what mattered most to Bucky. 

They do almost everything together.

Part of the routine the duo have acquired contains a visit to the local cafe in downtown D.C. Being in the city, the diner is almost always full; there have been a few occasions when they walk in to find it sparse, freshly stabilizing after a crazy rush. They always get two black coffees. Sometimes they finish the drinks within minutes when there’s somewhere else they need to be or it’s just that kinda day where caffeine is their only saving grace (maybe it really does work for him despite the serum or maybe it’s a mere placebo, but Bucky has taken a great liking to coffee) or they’ll stay for an hour and chat amicably about nothing, really. 

Miraculously, they never get recognized. One of the benefits of living in a city is that, generally, people don’t care what everyone else is up to. Just to be safe, though, Bucky makes sure to never leave the house without a baseball cap. The public may be friendly with Sam Wilson, but Bucky Barnes—more importantly: the Winter Soldier—is still a confusing figure in some minds. He’d rather not accidentally start a brawl at nine a.m. over his cup of joe. (People can’t seem to get the doctored image of him after the UN bombing out of their heads.)

The cafe is themed after the early twentieth century. A happy accident. It was startling the first time he walked through those doors to see framed photographs of Hollywood stars he once saw on the big screen as a child: Humphrey Bogart, Jimmy Stewart, Katharine Hepburn, Hedy Lamarr, James Cagney. Even a signed photo of Cary Grant sits by Sam and Bucky’s usual table; as a kid he used to look at Cary in the movies and think, _Boy, I want to be just like him._ Sometimes, in their quiet moments, Bucky will just stare at the picture with a wistful smile. _You kinda missed the mark, kid_, he thinks. But for the first time, he thinks he’s really starting to get a hang of things.

(He just wishes Steve were here to enjoy it, too.)

“—so this kid is like, ‘what’re you gonna do about it?’ and I give him a look—like an, ‘oh, you wanna do this, little dude?’, and I tell him, ‘well, squirt, I’m the fucking Falcon’—I mean, I didn’t say ‘fucking’ because, c’mon, he’s just a kid—“

Bucky is only half-listening. He has his chin resting in his hand, staring in the middle of the bustle of the cafe, cap pulled low to his brow. Adjusting to the twenty-first century has been a whirlwind, but it’s falling into place with time. There have been a few differences that, in particular, have caught Bucky off guard: first off, everyone seems so mad all the time. You can’t trust just anybody to watch your stuff while you run into the store real quick. When he was a kid, there was an ever-present sense of _community._ Now, people are always up to something suspicious. And if they aren’t, then they’re suspecting someone else is.

Secondly, technology just makes people…_not_ people. He hates to be the old man saying it rots the brain—he can’t count on his fingers the amount of times SHIELD’s advanced tech has helped them stop some serious threats—but he loathes the integration of corporate machines into day-to-day life. _God, get a soapbox_, he tells himself.

A flash of baby-blue crosses Bucky’s line of vision and his heart slows like molasses. If this were the thirties in Brooklyn, Bucky would have no problem rising from his seat, going up to the girl, and pulling some magical act that only overly confident young men are capable of and convince her to go on a date with him. He’d take her to Coney Island, make her go on the crazy rides, buy her a sugary candy that later on, when he leans in for a kiss, he’ll be able to taste on her tongue.

But times have changed and, more importantly, Bucky has changed. He stares at her—[Name], says the tag on her uniform—and sees, standing at a table with a small family, her lips spread into a smile that warms him even from across the room. He’s _pining_, he realizes that, and it’s embarrassing that things aren’t the way they once were—which is to say, Bucky isn’t. He isn’t the suave, personable guy that can just command the room. He was always the one Steve relied on to make the moves; if anything, that’s Sam to him now.

It’s strange being able to understand the Steve from back then. He never stopped to consider how isolating the feeling would be: to want to speak up, knowing deep in your veins that you could really like this person, but feeling you don’t offer enough to catch their attention in the first place. And Bucky…he’s got a lot on his plate. Hooking up with a new person every other week isn’t necessarily the smartest thing to embark on.

But—and maybe it’s the idealist in him that’s been left drowning, helpless, since he first went under the ice—he feels an odd draw to the young lady. She’s beautiful, that much is plain to see—even Sam has given him looks when she’s done taking their order: a raised brow from beneath his sunglasses and a small nod of approval before launching into that day’s animated story. But it’s more than an average desire. 

For instance, the first time he heard her laugh it had almost made him melt into the leathery booth seat. It’s loud and fills the space well—so well that once he heard it the first time, it became his mission to make her do it again and again. He considers it a good day if he’s gotten her to laugh at least once. 

Then he’ll stare at her, imagine holding her, and he’s reminded of the decades of blood on his hands. _You have no right to hold a girl like that._ Whenever his thoughts get this low, he tries to imagine what Steve would say; Steve was always nicer to Bucky than Bucky has ever been to Bucky.

She comes to their table like a breeze. A pinch of her perfume catches in Bucky’s nose: flowery, subtle. “Lemme guess: two black coffees,” she says. She didn’t even bother to bring the pad of paper with her.

“Damn, how’d you know, little lady?” asks Sam.

“Don’t you ever get hungry? I’m not just saying it because I work here—we have _really_ good pancakes.”

“I think we’re all set,” says Sam. He pats his stomach. “Gotta stay in shape.”

She raises a teasing brow and glances between them. “Yeah, you guys are really starting to look like you’re dragging ass.”

“We can’t all look as good as you, lady.”

Her eyes skillfully roll, but she smacks Sam’s arm, teasing. Thoughtlessly, Bucky has a smile on his face, watching the two of them go back and forth. It’s so _easy_ for Sam to slip into this role of the charming stranger, doling out compliments left and right. That’s just not Bucky’s style anymore. Even if he said the words, he think it just wouldn’t sound as convincing.

“What about you, James? We having some raw sugar with our coffee today?”

James. He doesn’t think she recognizes them, which—good. He’d hate for her to be walking on eggshells around them. Or worse, ignore them altogether. Or even _worse_, turn out to be some superhero groupie that romanticizes their work and wants to hear all the stories. (He doesn’t picture her being the type, but Bucky learned fast not to trust outward appearances so easily. You never know who someone will become under different circumstances.)

“Sure, I’ll take a packet,” he says, doling out the softest smile he can muster.

“Are you gonna just dip your finger into the mug?” Sam asks her.

Another eye roll, another smack. She slips away just as quickly as she came, sneaking sightlessly into the crowd of people.

“Damn.”

“What?” says Bucky, catching himself staring after her.

“I’m stealing all the good lines from you.”

It’s like high school all over again. Bucky swallows. “What do you mean?”

“Why don’t you just ask her out?”

Bucky pauses for a comically long time. “Why would I?”

Sam snorts, settling back and spreading his arms across the back of the seat. How does he make _existing_ look so easy? “You’re always staring—like a weirdo, might I add.” Bucky opens his mouth to retort, but he continues on: “You’re a good-looking dude. Just go up to her, ask her to some fancy restaurant.”

“It’s…”

“What?”

“It’s not that easy.”

A shoulder lifts lamely. “I mean, sure, we’re pretty busy, but—“

“It’s not that,” says Bucky, and it comes out so firmly that Sam’s mouth presses into a thin line. He didn’t mean to snap at him, but there’s a reason Bucky avoids talking to anybody—even Sam—about relationships and dating.

Sam’s arms drop and he leans forward to be heard over the static chatter. “Is this about The Other Guy?”

He both loathes and admires how easily Sam can read him. (It reminds him of Steve.) He breaks eye contact, staring out at the other tables. It’s too early in the day to be talking about the things Bucky hates most.

“You weren’t in control back then, man.”

“Sam.”

“Sorry. I know, it’s—shit, it’s heavy stuff, but you aren’t responsible for all that.”

“I still did it.” Bucky’s voice is hard as stone.

“Man, that’s…” Sam scoffs, falling back into the booth again. He shakes his head. “That’s fucked up, doing that to yourself.”

Bucky feels a wave of shame. Hating himself has always come so easy to him; it’s hard to break that cycle, even if he has Sam by his side for guidance. It’s not the first time they’ve had a conversation like this, and the feeling it leaves Bucky with is always so awful that he vows never to talk about it again. But, somehow, they always end up back 

at this 

spot.

~~~

Bucky is inside of what he can only refer to as a dorm room, courtesy of SHIELD. One of the first things Steve did after Bucky was back to himself was buy him a record player. _It’ll calm you down on hard nights,_ promised Steve. As always, he had been right. After Steve died and they held a service for him, Nick Fury himself handed Bucky all of Steve’s albums. _Take these off my hands_, he’d said, emotionless per usual, but Bucky knew this was more an act of charity. He saw in his eye that this was the most generous he’s ever and will ever see the SHIELD director be.

That night he had put on the first record and let it spin as he stared up at the ceiling, a smile easing into his mournful face, as he rediscovered how nostalgic Steve’s music taste was. Harry James, the Dorsey Brothers, Glenn Miller—a love for old jazz that felt less like music and more like an accompaniment as you floated through the clouds and stars. 

Sometimes at the cafe a song will come on that makes Bucky’s heart stop for the next couple minutes as he tries to remember how to breathe. It’s far too easy for him to get snapped back to the past. He feels a part of him is still living there on a different timeline, waiting to be reconnected with himself and feel normal again. That melancholia will never leave him, he knows that now, but it’s hard to become bedfellows with such an emptying feeling.

Some days all he has to keep him going is that soon he’ll be back ‘home’—even that word doesn’t fit right—listening to his music and getting lost in that little world until he can trick himself into falling asleep.

The familiar sound of Sam’s knuckles rapping on the door bring Bucky out of his reverie. In the morning he plays his music lowly, partly so he doesn’t become so enraptured that it’s hard to leave, enjoying more so the mere memory of the lulling, melodic tune; and so he can hear Sam’s inevitable arrival for whatever it happens to be that day: a stakeout, an investigation, a travel day. (He hates these the most; it’s hard being away from his therapeutic music for more than a couple days, and he doesn’t want to get a phone with a touch screen—that thing would shatter in seconds.)

They go down to the cafe like any other morning. There’s a breakfast rush, and they seat themselves at their usual table, which is always miraculously empty for them. And there’s [Name], bustling between tables and handling customers with such ease that Bucky is envious. He’s never felt so at home doing _anything_. What’s it like to navigate the world with even mild understanding? To feel this is the time and place you belong?

Two coffees, black. One raw sugar.

Sam doesn’t say anything, but when she walks away after delivering the mugs, he gives Bucky a long, expectant stare before shaking his head and taking a long sip of the steaming coffee. 

Bucky feels weightless in the worst possible way. Like he’s nothing.

~~~

Bucky’s seen a lot of terrible shit. He’s been a terrible person. A machine. There are a lot of terrible, terrible, terrible things in the world.

Hydra, aliens, human beings—there never seems to be an escape. It seems at every turn there’s someone, angry and hateful, trying to take control of the world. For a long time Bucky didn’t think he could stop it all. He’s just one man. But there’s so many more of them now, all of them wanting to help even in the smallest of ways.

It’s a heavy load to carry, but he is. And it’s what makes him, on his jog, stop by the cafe. Because holy shit, even if there’s so much awfulness in the world that he comes face-to-face with every day, how scary can talking to a girl be?

God must be looking down on him because, beautifully, it’s not as busy today. The blast of cool air when he steps inside is heavenly and helps him relax as he hovers by the door. He eyes their table, shoved in the corner right beneath the big windows, and decides, _fuck it_ and sits instead at the long bar, complete with swiveling, backless red leather stools. 

He’s aware he’s sweaty and wearing sweatpants and a long-sleeve t-shirt (can’t risk anyone seeing the metal arm) and gloves and his hair is plastered to his forehead, but he’s made it this far. He’s sick of second-guessing himself.

The door to the back swings open and there she is. Seeing him, her eyebrows raise, surprised. “Where’s your buddy?” she asks.

“Sleeping in,” he says, which Sam really is. He’s a military man, too, but it’s hard to deny exhaustion. Bucky knows the feeling. “I thought I’d swing by solo.”

“Did you just come back from the gym?”

“Just a jog around the block.”

He’s without his cap, feeling strangely naked. What if one long look in his face she pieces it all together and everything is flushed down the toilet? He really doesn’t want to end up disappointed.

“Impressive. I don’t think an apocalypse could force my legs to start moving.”

He smirks. “It keeps my mind off things. Y’know.”

“Yeah, I do,” she says, almost wistful. “It’s easier to not think.” Just as quick, she’s back in waitressing mode: “Are you doing your usual?”

“Actually, I thought I’d take you up on those pancakes.”

An eyebrow arches. “You’re gonna waste your workout?”

“It’s hard to deny myself something sweet,” he says.

There’s a small pinch of red in her cheeks, and Bucky thinks, _There it is._ A small, rare glimpse of the past Bucky that could say and do whatever he wanted without shame, just to prove that he could. It’s gonna be hard to fully tune into that guy again, but at least he knows he still has it in him, buried deep.

She slips off to deliver the order—three stacked pancakes, maple syrup, with a side of hash browns and berries, and a glass of orange juice—and Bucky simmers in the giddiness of flirting with a beautiful woman. Maybe it’s this time capsule of a cafe that’s motivating him, able to connect with the music and the aesthetics and _her_ all by himself, navigating the world alone. 

Sure enough, she didn’t lie: the pancakes are delicious. Even the food of modern day tastes a little different, but the meals at small cafes like this, homemade and just-like-Mom-used-to-make-‘em, are the closest thing he’ll get to a genuine thirties diet. 

The diner is so slow, in fact, that she stands with him as he eats, chatting. He learns she’s younger than he expected—it almost makes him second guess everything—but she looks and talks more maturely than most other people he’s encountered. She’s worked here for a year, is saving up to move out of the city—“I need somewhere that feels more like me, as cheesy and cliche as that sounds”—and, really, doesn’t know what she wants to do: “I just want to be happy, y’know? Money is tight and it’s hard to have a lot all at one time, but I’m trying. What do you even do for work?”

“Uh.” Bucky lets the fork fall to the plate. He ate the pancakes way too fast; it’s a good thing stomachaches are a thing of the past for him now. “I’m a…patrolman.”

She frowns. She’s leaning across the bar, painfully close; although the smell is light, he’s so hyper-focused on her perfume that he knows it’ll cling to him for the rest of the day. He has no problem with that. “Like, a mall cop?”

“What? No, not like that. I guess you could call me an…” No, _agent_ is too specific and she’ll be able to connect the dots from there. (SHIELD, like Big Brother, is ever-present.) “An…enforcer.”

“Enforcer?” A small giggle escapes her, her fingers touching her mouth to suppress it, which only endears Bucky to her even more. “Are you a bouncer at a club?”

“No. Look, I can’t really get into specifics. It’s—“ and he hesitates because he knows how much of an asshole it’ll make him sounds, “—top secret. Government stuff.” An easy, one-shoulder shrug.

“Government stuff,” she echoes.

“Yeah. In so many words.”

“Are you Secret Service?”

“No.”

“Although, if you were, would you be allowed to answer that?”

“I don’t think it works that way.”

“Hm.” Her arms cross as she stands up straight, looking him over. It burns, her stare. _Don’t recognize me, don’t recognize me, don’t recognize me._ “You have me intrigued, James.”

“My line of work is the best part about me, so don’t get too excited.”

A look of real despair flashes across her face, but is gone a moment later. It doesn’t slip past him how easy it is for her to school her emotions. It’s highly possible that she could be an undercover agent, testing what he’s willing to divulge, or maybe she’s dangerous, wanting to infiltrate and get an inside glimpse of SHIELD via manipulating him—

As he’s thinking it, he realizes how paranoid it sounds. But he also doesn’t immediately discount the idea.

“Don’t talk about yourself like that,” she scolds. “Just from these short talks I can tell you have more personality in your pinky than most people do in their whole body. Which, by the way, why are you wearing gloves while you eat?”

“Oh—um—“

“I don’t mean to put you on the spot, it’s just that I’ve noticed you’re always covered up.” Immediately she backtracks: “It’s none of my business. I’m sorry—“

“I have some scars,” he says, which is technically a lie, but also painfully accurate. “From work. It’s easier to hide them than let the rest of the world see.”

“I’m so sorry. God, I must sound like an asshole—asking something so personal—“

“No!” His voice is too firm, trying too hard to convince her that he would never see her that way. _Unless you give me an honest reason to,_ the skeptic in him debates. “Not at all! I don’t mind. Honestly.”

“Well, I’m sorry you got hurt.”

“Thank you. Me too.”

~~~

“You seem…lighter.”

“Huh? What do you mean?”

“Like…happy. Is everything okay?”

They’re standing on a rooftop, whispering back and forth, as they stare at the doorway across the street. Any minute now there’ll be a man walking out of the there containing prints to an upcoming Stark mechanics robbery. They’ve been telling themselves this since they arrived. It’s been three hours and they haven’t heard a peep from inside.

Stakeouts aren’t as fun as Bucky thought they would be. If anything, he spends most of it bored out of his skull, then the action happens—if it ever actually does—and after a few minutes the adrenaline is gone and he’s left feeling bored and empty all over again. 

Tonight him and Sam are posted on the opposite building’s roof, and some agents are guarding the other exit. Comms have been silent, except for the usual utterance of complaint that, _Holy shit, nothing is happening_, and _I really have to take a leak._

“I made a pitstop at the cafe.”

Sam, exhausted, perks up at that. “Really?”

“Just for a little bit,” he says with an easy shrug.

“Did you, uh…you know.”

“I didn’t ask her out, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“What happened then?”

Bucky pauses, trying to find the words, and aware of the stupid smile on his face. He looks to Sam. “Well, we actually…talked. For a little while, but it was…really nice.”

To say Sam is underwhelmed would be vastly understating it. His face falls. “Wow. I hope you used protection.”

“I’m not gonna just jump into things, man. I don’t want to scare her off.”

A moment of mutual, thoughtful silence hangs in the air. The stars are out. It’s a beautiful night, and all Bucky can think about is when he’ll get to stop by the cafe and talk to her again. Is this what it’s like to be a normal person? (Because he can get used to this.)

“At least I’m making an attempt, y’know?”

But Sam’s thoughts are elsewhere: “How hasn’t she figured out who we are yet?”

“I don’t know. Maybe she doesn’t watch the news.”

Sam’s stare is stabbing into the side of Bucky’s face. Bucky refuses to meet his eye, knowing it’s full of judgement. “I think she would’ve noticed when half the population turned into confetti, man. If she wasn’t one of them.”

“You know what I mean. Not everyone cares about the…Avengers.” Even the word sounds tainted in his mouth. He isn’t sure they even are the Avengers anymore and, secondly, he doesn’t consider himself a member, nonetheless. It’s a little too heroic-sounding for his taste.

“I don’t know, man. It’s hard to ignore that kinda thing when it’s right in your face.”

Despite the forced naivety, Bucky understands where Sam’s coming from. There’ve been documentaries, TV series, magazine cover stories—Hell, he got invited to some movie premiere a couple months back. They’re becoming celebrities, and it disgusts him. Citizens can see what he wants, but he knows the truth to all of this bullshit. It’s never as pretty or romantic as the rest of them think it is.

_I want to be like you when I grow up_. He’s heard it a few times now, and each time it makes his stomach roll with nausea. He wants to lay a hand on their shoulder and say, _No, you don’t, kid._

“Are you implying that she can’t be trusted?”

Sam shrugs. “Can anyone? Thinking like that will only make you lonely, man. It’s just an excuse to distance yourself.”

Growing frustrated, he says, “I don’t know what you’re getting at.”

“Trust your instincts. Get close, be flirty, but if you get a bad feeling, back off. Easy as that.”

But is it so easy? Bucky’s seen her countless times, talked to her only a handful, but he’s already daydreaming about her on the job, wondering where she is or what she’s doing or who she’s doing it with. When he’s listening to Steve’s collection, the more romantic songs have him thinking of her. It’s been a long time; this is all so new to him, which makes it all the more exciting. He’s getting worked up over someone he barely knows.

He’s a kid all over again. He hates how weak it makes him feel.

~~~

[Name] is beaming with what he thinks is genuine joy. “Hey!”

He really, really likes the uniform: a light blue, cinched at the waist, and coming to the mid-thigh. She’s usually wearing black sneakers or combat boots with it, which only elongates her legs and—Jesus, he’s in too deep.

“Fancy seeing you here,” she says. “More pancakes?”

“Sure. That black coffee, too.”

“Raw sugar?”

“Of course.”

At this point he’s dropped by countless times; just to chat, get to know her better. Talking comes more easily for them. He likes the repetition. He likes that, even subconsciously, she knows these little details about him. It’s her job, he reminds himself, and he’s aware of just how pathetic it is of him to think he’s special. For her, this is just another paycheck, another attempt at more tips. 

But he doesn’t picture her being so greedy. Sure, she needs the money to survive—she said so herself that she’s saving to move away—but he doubts this is one-sided. Nobody is that good of an actor just for a measly spare few dollars.

“God, I haven’t had these pancakes in a long time,” she says, leant over the bar. (He very strongly despises how good she looks bending over in that uniform.) 

“Want some?”

“That’s your food. I’m not gonna pick like a vulture.”

Ignoring her, Bucky cuts a piece with the fork, stabs it, and hovers the piece in front of her. She snorts with laughter, eyes alternating between the pancake and his face. Her own is growing red, flattered by their closeness. “My boss would kill me,” she says.

“Just say I’m a close friend.”

“Or a boyfriend,” she teases, well aware of that reaction it’ll get from him.

Maybe she knows him too well because it takes him aback, burning his neck. He smiles, mischievous, and waves the fork, reminding her of the offer. “Have some.”

Her eyes shut, flustered, and when they open she takes a bite. The small tug of the fork on his end makes the easygoing smile fall and he watches her mouth move as she chews the food, suddenly covetous of the sight of her like this. It’s awful, how quickly his mind wanders to the most venereal places. 

He takes a piece for himself, aware that as his mouth closes around the fork, it’s like he’s touching her. 

“It’s so good,” she moans, and sits up straight to plant her palms on the counter, arms spread minutely. All Bucky can focus on is the thrust of her body, the ways in which she holds herself. _Jesus Christ._

“As nice as it is here, I’m here almost everyday, so I get kinda burnt out, but when I first started here I was in love with the place.” She scoffs. “I make it sound like I hate it now. I really don’t. It’s still so charming to me, and I know I’m lucky to still like my job after a year of being here. People have it so worse off. But, still—my point is,” she says, with a small, bashful laugh at herself for getting sidetracked, “I don’t eat here much anymore. The moment I clock out, I’m gone mentally, too. I like keeping distance because if I don’t it’s all I’ll think about. I’m kind of…obsessive, I guess you could say.”

“Yeah? Like with what?”

“Well, work, like I said. My interests: movies, music, books, anything media-centric. Not reality show, gossip-y type things,” she immediately defends. “But…the pretentious stuff like symbolism and—‘oh, why did the director move the camera this way? why did the actor say the line like _that_?’ Artsy things.”

He isn’t sure what exactly brought all this on, but he’s thankful for whatever line they seem to have crossed that she’s now comfortable enough to say these things around him. He can see in the demure way she’s speaking and holding herself that this isn’t something she readily admits to strangers. Like it’s a glimpse into a part of herself she never admits to having.

“I didn’t know that,” he says, awed.

Her shrug is small, reticent. “Yeah. I mean, it’s a big part of why I moved to D.C. in the first place. I’m not _that_ into American history, but places like the Smithsonian fascinate me. I like a glimpse into the past and how, at the end of the day, we’re all the same people with the same desires and needs. Time is the only thing that separates us, and even then, with music and art, we aren’t _really_ all that separated.” There’s a small pause, and she surprises herself—and him—with a little laugh. “God, I sound like such a douchebag, claiming to know the secrets of the universe.” She wiggles her fingers, teasing. 

The way she can make him think so intensely and so easily laugh at herself in the same sentence makes him cherish her even more. No, there aren’t many people like her out there, unfortunately. But it just makes him feel all the more special for finding her at this time and place.

_Have you ever visited the Captain America exhibit?_ he wants to ask. _There’s a familiar face there, right next to Steve Rogers’._

“Is that why you were drawn to work here?”

A hesitation, then her face clears. “I guess so. Huh. I never thought of it like that.” She touches her chin, thinking it over. “I mean, yeah, the reason I applied was because of the decorations and the music, but the way you worded it—_drawn_ here—that’s a good way of describing it. Granted, it probably wasn’t any better back then, but it’s easy to look at a time other than your own and idealize the hell out of it. I’m guilty of that, certainly.”

_You’re right, but it _was _a little better, in its own little way_, he wants to say so, so badly that it actually hurts to keep the words tucked inside. He wishes he could take her back there, bring her to all the sights, let her breathe the fresher air and show him all his old haunts. She’d love it. And she’d blend right in, just a ghost from the future seeing what else there is—or, was.

There’s a romance and altruism to the manner in which she speaks that makes Bucky maudlin and nostalgic. It isn’t until he gets home and puts on Harry James’s Greatest Hits that he realizes he’s been waiting all day to tell Steve all about her.

~~~

Bucky isn’t sure what he’s doing, but late one night he’s laying on the floor thinking about Steve and [Name] and letting the music swallow him as the ocean does, and then he’s on his feet and out the door, walking down to the diner despite it being several blocks away. He could run there, make the time pass faster, but he wants to soak it all in: the night sky, the bustling streets, the beeping cars. All of the tiny details he’s taken for granted so many times before that only now, in this moment, he’s beginning to cherish.

For the first time in a long time, he’s grateful to be above ground.

(_I thought maybe I’ll try some of that life Tony was telling me to get._)

The lights are still on in recesses of the kitchen, but he knows the cafe is closing any minute. He isn’t even sure what time it is. The lobby is dark, and he sees her, sweeping, and that small image of her in that little world propels him forward.

His knock on the door is loud to his own ears. Her head snaps up, surprised, but the moment she recognizes him her face softens, and he wants to cup the sight in his hands, keep that warmth safe for as long as he can.

“Hi,” she says. Her hair is down. He imagines slipping his fingers through them, holding her close.

“You’re closed,” he states plainly. “I realize I’m keeping you here longer than you probably wanted, but…can I come in?”

Light pours through the small cubby connecting the kitchen to the lobby. It stains the floor like sunlight, but it only barely illuminates the space. It feels…dreamy, almost. This place is so quaint and welcoming that he takes it as a sign that this wasn’t the worst idea in the world, but that his feet have led him right where he needs to be tonight.

There’s a pile of crumbs and dust in the corner. He feels a pang of guilt and says, “I’m sorry I pulled you away from your work.”

“It’s fine, James. Is something the matter?”

“Not at all.” He scratches the back of his neck. “I felt like I had to come here. Do you ever get those feelings?”

“Of course.”

“I have this friend,” he hears himself say, and fights down a frog in his throat. “A really good friend. It’s through him that I met Sam. He…” Tears well up. “He made me a better man. Sam, too. We owe a lot to him. And there’s some nights like now when I can feel him as if he’s right over my shoulder, telling me what to do, still guiding me in the right direction. If you knew him, it’d make sense. He was always looking out for everyone else. He came last.”

Her eyes are watery. So is her smile. “He sounded like a great man.”

“Yeah.” Bucky rubs his nose, sniffly. “He really was.” He stares down at the floor. It’s strange, that moment when you realize you really are _here_, existing. “I’m sorry. I probably sound crazy. It’s just…even the small things have been hard to do since he left.”

“I understand. And you don’t sound crazy, James.”

_My name is Bucky._ Not now. It’s not the time for that just yet.

“Not to sound like a broken record, but…do you want some coffee?”

Bucky chuckles, and it escapes like a bubble of air that’s been trapped in his chest. “No, I’m all good. I just wanted to see you.”

The words come out without any consideration. It’s just the plain truth—but he realizes the implication and immediately looks into her face, concerned that he’s gone too far. 

But there’s a fanciful expression painting her face that enchants him. Without words, he sees all he needs to know in that look she gives him. And his heart, for the first time in decades, fills with what he can only describe as moonlight—something otherworldly and inexplicably beautiful. 

She comes closer and, tentative, lays a hand on his chest. She looks just as scared as him, which only makes him adore her more. A tear glistens as it streams down her cheek, and he’s quick to brush it away. The mere fact she cries for him simply because he is too and without _truly_ understanding what is going on makes him want to bury himself in her.

Her skin is softer than he thought and his hands quite literally begin to quiver when he realizes this is the closest he’s ever gotten to another human being in over seventy years. What has become normal for him—punches, kicks, choking—is all replaced by her touch reaching outward and laying on his cheek as she comes impossibly closer.

The music is still playing gently over the speakers. He recognizes Moonlight Serenade like an old friend. And she must, too, because her next words are, “Maybe a dance will help you.”

[Name] takes his hand, the other slowly fitting to her waist. He neglected gloves tonight—he hadn’t even thought to put them on—so she almost immediately recognizes that there’s something other than flesh gripping her side. Without looking, she reaches out and feels the cooled metal.

All at once, realization passes over her face.

Their gazes hold, Bucky praying that he doesn’t scare her away. These hands have maimed and killed, but holding her, all he can think about is all the good they are capable of. Because he’s in control of them now. It’s him that makes the choices. It’s the reason he sent Sam over to say goodbye to Steve. War is in the past; he wants to embrace the better of life now. The better of _him_.

“I should’ve told you sooner, doll,” he whispers, a hint of smile playing on his lips.

To his surprise, she laughs. The hot air touches his mouth. “I should’ve guessed sooner.” And then she’s up on tiptoes and kissing him, pressing that still-beautiful smile to his mouth and pulling him in as they sway to the music, the memory of a ghost lingering in the room. And Bucky envelopes himself in that contentment.

~~~

(_You wanna tell me about her?_

_No. No, I don’t think that I will._)


End file.
